


Snow and Acid

by ObsidianSami



Category: Dem Salty Bois - Fandom, Supernatural
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Ghost Hunters, Alternate Universe - High School, Bad Decisions, Bully Michael (Supernatural), Depression, F/M, Gay, Gen, Homophobia, I'm Bad At Tagging, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, LGBTQ Character, Not Major Ships, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Past Domestic Violence, Past Relationship(s), Sad Ending, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Trans Character, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-17 05:17:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17554088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsidianSami/pseuds/ObsidianSami
Summary: The only point at which Caspian debated whether his life was falling apart was after it had already fallen apart. His friends Sam, Jessica, and Charlie are all Caspian has left; even after his mother decided he was all alone. With Jeremiah moving in next door, it seems the group of four grows to five. It's up to Caspian's friends to save him from the secrets his mother is keeping.And the secrets this town is keeping from all of them.





	Snow and Acid

**Author's Note:**

> All lines from Caspian's mother are recycled from someone I know. Parts of this story are taken from my life, and I apologize ahead of time if anything in this story triggers someone. I will put warnings at the start of a chapter if they are used.
> 
> Drug use.  
> Some swearing.  
> Mother swearing at her child (or however you want to put it).  
> Missing father.  
> Bullying.

I watched the five guys and a girl pile out of the vehicle, beaming and laughing with one another with seldom care in the world. The sound of cheerful chatter and loud music drifts from their van, flooding the dreary neighborhood with sudden happiness. A moving van pulls up behind them, slowly coming to a stop just before crashing into their van.

The guy sporting a purple jacket pulls his wallet out and hands the driver a wad of money. The five of them begin unloading the boxes from the back quickly, the smallest of the four taking in marginally less. His eyes wander the yard, then the street, and finally, his eyes meet mine. A sudden terror takes over my body.

Hurriedly, and fearfully, I pull myself back. My heart is going nearly twenty bajillion beats a minute. The dim room suddenly feels even darker as I peek out the blinds. To my immediate relief, the boy is no longer looking at me and is no longer in sight. The moving van drives away with a deathly noise, and I hear the sound of someone inside the house locking the other vehicle.

I hear new neighbors in the house across the street howling in laughter. Through the stillness of the rest of the neighborhood, their cheerful words are loud. My mom opens my door and shuffles in, mumbling about how obnoxious the new neighbors are. Her angry eyes scan my room for anything wrong with it. Fearfully, I hold my breath as her eyes hunt out any mess. Her irate brown eyes find my backpack; the backpack is far too heavy to be hung.

“I told you to fucking clean your room,” my mother snarls, drawing my attention to the object.

“But you told me that I could keep it on the floor because it’s too heavy for the hooks,” I start but am interrupted with a hand making contact with my cheek.

With a furious glare, my mother’s hand falls to her side. “I never said that, you fucking liar.”

I look down at the floor as the conversation we had about two days ago echoes in the back of my mind. Her kind words made me feel happy. I remember her clearly stating, ‘I think that’s a wonderful idea, keep it on the floor, so it doesn’t break.’ Maybe she was sarcastic then, but I had no way to know.

“You make me wish I never had kids. Why can’t you be more like your sister?”

Embarrassment floods my veins, and the floor suddenly is the only interesting thing about my room. With an annoyed huff, my mother mumbles something about cleaning my room and leaves. Even after she leaves, I still cannot bring myself to look anywhere but the floor.

My cheek burns with both embarrassment and pain; every time my mother hits me, it always leaves bruises. At least I was lucky enough to escape a whipping. Slight happiness overrides my embarrassment as I try to figure what I can take out of my bag to make it light enough to hang on the hook. I need the textbooks, the folders, but not the binders. I pull the binders out and take the folders out of them. Immediately, my backpack feels lighter than it had before.

I hear the snap of a guitar string and then a loud crack. Following is my mother’s angry voice, “Throw out your stupid guitar, it’s broken.”

Before I can peek out of my room, I hear her door slam shut. “Finally.”

I quietly make my way outside so I can sit on the curb. I need a cig badly now, I need so badly to forget about the guitar. So, I place the cig in my mouth and pull out the lighter, bringing it to the tip. As I pull the cig away from my mouth, I see the window to the neighbor’s house open. The boy jumps out and walks across the street towards me. I breathe out the smoke and smile inwardly at the feeling.

The boy sits next to me, and I silently offer him a cig. He takes it, lights it, and shifts closer to me to grab my lighter. Lighting it, he hands the lighter back to me carefully. I flinch as his warm hand brushes against my cold one. It is both an unexpected temperature difference and unexpected contact.

“Jeremiah, or Jp,” the boy states, turning his head to face me.

I shrug nonchalantly and rake my eyes across the empty, dark street. “Clint.”

“Okay, Clint," he says as if he is testing out my name.

Our conversation completely dies out after that, and I hear a door open. Jeremiah stomps out his cig immediately and stands. Looking across the street, I see a figure in his front door. I hear him mumble some sort of goodbye before taking off across the street.

I hear the guy in the doorway start asking Jeremiah about me, and I hear the same thing I always do, “she’s freaky.” With a deep breath and a sigh, I stomp out my cig and stand up. The door closes at Jeremiah's house, breaking the silence of our somber neighborhood. Pulling myself up the giant tree in our front yard, I slip silently into my room; I shut the window quietly and fall onto my bed with a soft sigh.

Immediately, my thoughts are racing a million miles a minute. The memory of Jeremiah's welcoming voice bringing my mind to a sudden stir of thoughts. As my mind wanders the possibilities of the two of us being friends, I hear my mother’s voice echo in the back of mind like she is actually with me. I know she hates me, it’s obvious.

“Nobody could love someone as expendable as you.”

My mother’s words echo in my mind as sleep drags me into another nightmare. The only nightmare I have is one of my father’s dead body dangling from the ceiling. When I was five, I had walked in on it. At that age, I had no idea why my father never returned home after going out to get cigarettes. I eventually found out that my father would never come home and that he is dead.

Time drifts by as I sit awake, shivering and clutching my knees to my chest. A feeling of emptiness continuously runs through my veins, like it had replaced my blood. I instantly tell myself to throw it away. I know my mother will be mad if I leave it there.

My clock glared angry, red numbers into the faint brightness of my room. It read 4:23 am, and I feel an urge to get ready for school. It’s not that school is fun or anything; school most certainly is not fun in the slightest. School happened to be my only escape from the desolate house I call home. I could get away from my mother who cast me out from any family activity because I wasn’t family.

Outside of my house, the sun is barely peeking up above the horizon of gray pebbles that we call a road. My walk to school is short, and I would barely notice it if it had been warm; the winter temperature bites at me, and the ice that covered the sidewalks gleams at me. The ice seems to taunt me, asking me to fall.

“Hey rockstar, what’re you doing out so early?”

I turn to see my next door neighbor, and best friend, Sam. He smiles warmly at me, the only comfort I got throughout the day. If I’m to be honest, Sam is one of the only reasons I’m alive today. Through the years, he talked to me and kept me from ending it all. That being said, he is also the one who introduced me to drugs.

Sam is the brother I never wanted but always needed. The guy had a dog named Loki; an all white german shepherd with a playful attitude. Almost every day as a kid, I would play with the puppy. Now, though, Loki is an elder on the verge of dying.

Their family consisted of Sam, his brother Dean, and their dog Loki. And, if I truly thought about it like this, their father John. Although, I absolutely do not consider John any part of that family. He is virtually never home, and when he is, none of the neighbors get any sleep over his angry screaming at the two brothers.

Dean was also rarely home whilst I was hanging out with Sam. He worked a 9 to 9 shift at Ellen’s Diner Monday through Friday just to support his brother and him; on Saturday’s he works at the community center for a couple bucks an hour. The plan was, Dean would send Sam to college and then send himself back to high school. Honestly, I doubt the plan will work but never brought it up when I did get to see the eldest brother.

Smiling at Sam, I stop for a moment. “Going to school.”

“At 5 in the morning? Doesn’t school start at 8?”

“Stopping at the overnight guitar center.”

With a surprised face, Sam takes a step forward. “They have one of those?”

I nod, readjusting my backpack.

“You look handsome today. See you in History, Clint,” Sam tells me, taking a hit from his weed.

Silently, I wave goodbye to him before trudging forward. The snow now reaches up to my knees and resisted any forward movement. The frigid gusts smack me in the face as I turn the corner to head to the guitar center. Still, the snow pounded against my face.

The guitar center sat on a dusty dirt road which very few cars dared to travel; the store is a small, family-owned business that very few people in this town have heard of. If I am being honest, I am still very surprised the place is still open. Besides the business, the buildings on this road are almost all abandoned or temporarily closed. The lack of customers in this area have made the store owners on this road flee.

Inside the guitar center, I instantly take notice of the boxes that lined the floor by the walls. I glance around to attempt to find Mark, the owner. Eventually, I find him tucked away in his office near the back of the store surrounded by stacks of papers. His eyes scanned the paper sitting in front of him carefully, him seemingly not noticing my presence.

“Mark?” I ask, knocking softly on the doorframe.

Mark’s chocolate eyes shoot up to look at me, and his lips curl into a small smile. “Hi, Clint.”

Although his eye holds childlike glint, his voice holds soft despair. Based on the boxes, papers, and his tone, I instantly realize the guitar center is closing down. Whether debt or something else, it really had no impact, I am still incredibly sad. This center has always been like another home to me.

“So, this place is really closing after so many years of business?” My voice echoes off the walls, and that’s when I notice the bare walls.

“Or lack of,” Mark mutters, setting his pen down and standing up.

“You and a couple other kids have been the only business here for almost three months, Clinton. The building needs repairs that I just simply cannot afford. My family needs money for food and clothes.”

I shake my head softly and turn to face the shelves of amps and guitars. This will most likely be my last time walking these aisles before the building closed down. After Mark leaves, I doubt another business will be stupid enough to buy this building. The roof is starting to cave in places, and the carpet is in desperate need to be replaced. I can still smell the odor of the skunk that had died in the vents a month back.

“Tell you this, Clint. Pick any guitar and it’s yours.”

Those words got me excited for about half a second. A new guitar sounds like a dream come true, yet I do not want to give up the guitar my brother gifted me. Although the wood looks as if it has been bathed in mud for over half of its life, and smelled that way too, I still love the guitar with every fiber of my being.

“You think you can fix up my old guitar? And maybe give it a small touch up?” I ask, turning to face Mark.

“I’ll see what I can do, want me to pick it up at your house this evening?”

Stopping for a second, I think. My mother will be at work until 5. “4:30 sound okay for you to pick it up?”

Mark only nods, shoving his final wall decoration into a box. How soon until the guitar center closes?”

“Just so you know, Clinton, I’m leaving town after this place closes. I’m moving back to Ohio to stay with my friend and his wife.”

My grin turns to a frown almost immediately after he says that. Ohio is on the clear opposite side of the country, or close to it. I will never be able to see him. The clock in the front of the store chimes, signaling it’s 7. I quickly hug Mark before heading to the door. Before I can leave, Mark calls my name.

“Take this,” he mumbles, pushing a guitar pick into my hand.

Just as I open my mouth to ask him why he’d given it to me, Mark ushers me out the door and back into the snow. The door to the store closes, and Mark disappears back into his store.

“The French revolution is only the bloodiest revolution ever fought,” Mr. Cunningham states, turning off the projector.

A chorus of questions arises from the French class, including one from me. Mr. Cunningham chuckles and turns to the board. Picking up a marker, he writes the vocab on the board, saying them after he writes them. The class repeats them until Sylvie mispronounces calculatrice. A moment of silence passes before the entire class erupts into laughter.

The bell rings, and almost everybody immediately stands up. With a chorus of au revoirs, the classroom empties. I follow behind the class but am stopped by my teacher calling my name. The name that I was given at birth.

“You’re failing my class, and I will have no choice but to tell your parents, Rosaline. If you do well on this upcoming test, I may just slip a few extra credit points into your grades and pass you at a C.”

“Yes sir,” I respond, adjusting my backpack.

For some odd reason, I got a ping of anxiety when the name Rosaline was used to refer to me. Luckily, my chest never was large, although I wish it is flatter. The two-minute bell rings, and I take a step back. He seems to get my message and nods, turning to wipe off the whiteboard. I never have understood whether Mr. Cunningham likes me or hates me.

My next class starts off as it usually does; Mr. Thompson walks in seven minutes after the bell rings, struggling to hold all of his papers. As his eyes meet ours, his face pales, and he laughs awkwardly. Dropping the papers on his desk, Mr. Thompson collapses into his chair, a large heave of air leaving his slightly grinning mouth.

“I forgot to grade your tests last night-” Mr. Thompson starts but is interrupted.

“Again?” Charlie exclaims, turning to face me.

Her red hair falls into her face, and her lips curl into a wide grin. Mr. Thompson’s face turns as red as Charlie’s hair. Before long, the entire class is chatting loudly about our teacher’s bright red face. The door to the classroom opens and Mr. Ashwell, the principal, walks in. I don’t think Mr. Thompson’s face has ever gotten any redder than at this moment. The redhead jerks back around to face the front of the room.

The math teacher immediately dusts himself off and gives us a half glare. Charlie turns to face me and laughs. Her eyes sparkle in the light of this brightly (excessively in my opinion) classroom. Every group of friends has the gay one, and Charlie is definitely that friend; she came out to us about three years ago, and honestly, we all knew beforehand. It was obvious, and the girl really failed at hiding it.

“Have you seen the new kids?” Charlie asks.

Nodding, I stand and to reach over her to grab her homework. “They live across from me.”

“Really? I think one of them’s hot enough to make me straight,” the redhead laughs her shy, little giggle.

I roll my eyes. “You do know there’s a thing called Bi, and Pan, and Demi, and other terms.”

“Oh shut up!”

I stick my tongue out at her, copying her homework, “Bite me!”

“You wish.”

I don’t respond, instead, I push Charlie’s homework off of my desk. As it flutters to the floor, I hear the door open and close again. Immediately, Charlie grabs her paper and turns back around in her seat. Mr. Thompson’s face is no longer red, and he is shuffling through the billions of papers on his desk.

By the time he’s found the one he wants, most of the class has put their earbuds in, including me. Slamming a book on his desk, Mr. Thompson gets everyone's attention; all conversations stop immediately. Charlie falls out of her seat, although I can tell it was on purpose. With a short whine, she sticks her tongue out at the teacher.

“Look what you did!” She whines as she gets back into her seat.

“Sure, Ms. Bradbury, and I’m president.”

Charlie gives a small giggle, “President of the loser club.”

“And what would you be?”

Before Charlie can respond, I cut in. “She’d be the queen of the gays.”

Everyone in the class responds with nods. The teacher rolls his eyes before looking over the paper in his hand. He sets it down on his desk with a soft sigh. I instantly assume that Mr. Thompson had planned on filling out the answer sheet but had forgotten. And his reddening face proves my suspicion.

“I don’t have an answer sheet, so,” he trails off for a second, “I guess you all get A’s on the assignment.”

“Are you even prepared to be a teacher?” Charlie asks. “I don’t think you are.”

“Shut it, Bradbury, I’m perfectly qualified.” Mr. Thompson rolls his eyes. “Now! I forgot to make your test for this lesson, so instead, do homework for other classes.”

Charlie turns her chair around to face me, and she plops down her History textbook. Both she and I have History with Sam. Mr. Patterson is my favorite teacher, he tries to help me with information I don’t understand. Sam and Charlie both love Mr. Hanby who teaches Physical Science (which I got to skip) and Physics. I will be taking Physics during my senior year. By skipping Physical Science, I have to take Physics and Chemistry.

My friends are all smart; I, of course, am the dumb one and have to use my friends for my homework. Charlie is my main source for four of my classes. For two of my other classes, Sam and Jeremiah both help me. But for French, I have nobody to help me which is why I have an F.

My brain is slower to learning things and forgets things easily, and my attention span is worse than an ADD toddler. Although I have been getting better with my attention, I still suck at trying to pay attention to most things. Speeches and tests are the worst for me; movies are pretty bad too. A 90 minutes movie takes me about four hours to actually finish now, and it used to take me a full day.

“Caspian,” I hear Charlie exclaim, clapping in front of my face.

I look up at her with wide eyes. “I’m sorry!”

“I’ve been trying to tell you to write this down.”

Instead of saying a word to the redhead, I begin to copy her paper. Of course, I change a couple of words and maybe leave out complete sentences just to make it seem different. The bell rings as I finish the last sentence to the question, ‘how did the Civil War end?’

Charlie grabs the paper from me and stuffs it into her Star Wars backpack. With a large grin, she waves bye and skips out of the room. Again, but slower this time, the class leaves the classroom. Shoving my papers into my backpack, I hurry out of the room before Mr. Thompson can call my name.

The fear of my school life being ratted out to my mother always killed me. I feel Mr. Thompson will be a lot kinder about ratting me out to my mother then Mr. Cunningham. With a wave goodbye to my Calculus teacher, I shuffle down the hallway towards Athletic Development. I hate this period, not because of my teacher, but because Ruby is in this class; she bullies me for a large number of reasons. Ruby is, of course, dating Michael who is the most popular jock.

Entering the gym, I’m immediately spotted by Ruby and her two sidekicks Lilith and Abaddona. They giggle to one another before quickly striding over to me. Before I have a chance to get out of the gym, the three are surrounding me.

“Heya, tranny!” Ruby chirps, smiling wickedly.

“Leave me alone, Ruby,” I say confidently.

I have no clue where the burst of confidence came from, but I decide to use it for the best. As a response, Lilith punches me in the stomach. Hard. Pain erupts through my body, and I gasp for air. Ruby cackles at my pain, her stupid brown hair falling perfectly.

“Nice try, Rosaline,” Abaddona snorts.

I don’t respond because I don’t want to get punched anymore. Mr. Kline blows his whistle, drawing the three girls away from me. He had just come out of college, he is practically still a kid. Mr. Kline’s mother also works at this school, she is the Family and Consumer Science and Career and Life Planning teacher.

“Everyone, get changed!” Mr. Kline calls out.

The locker room fills quickly with kids. Everyone talks to each other, flooding the barren room with loud words. I hurriedly pull on my clothes, hoping to not get stuck alone with Ruby and her minions. As I rushed to put my clothes on, my nerves begin to shake; the shaking in my hands begins to make putting clothes on even more difficult.

With a heavy sigh, I slip on my last sneaker and sprint out of the dressing room; the only people that were left in the locker room was Ruby and her gang and two other girls. Inside the main gym, Mr. Kline is passing out basketballs to girls. He tosses me a ball and points to a half court that holds three other girls.

“Horse or Pig, whichever your group wants to play,” Mr. Kline calls to me as I jog to the court.

In the group, I find Anna, Becky, and Meg talking about the newest students. Bouncing the basketball to Meg, I join in their conversation. Anna keeps mentioning how much she dislikes Patrick, which is one of the newest students. The four brothers have yet to be in any of my classes.

“The oldest brother is Wade, then there's Patrick, next is Garuku, and finally Jeremiah,” Meg tells us, banking the ball off of the backboard from the free throw line. “Anna’s next in line.”

“I guess that’s an H,” Anna says after she attempts to make it off of the backboard, but it bounces off the backboard onto the ground. “I heard Patrick smokes weed.”

If he does, I think me and him will get along well.


End file.
